I taste cardamom in my coffee and the coffee grinds escaping the cup in my inhalations and swirling into my mouth.

I see pops of color, layers upon layers upon layers of fabric seemingly defying gravity while intended whisps and curls peek out— turning into flatter, lower-sitting, more-neck-covering, and black or dark-colored hijabs.

I feel ‘proud Lod’ meeting narratives of shame like oil and water. They are immiscible like liquids that are shaken together and, in turn, settle into overlapping layers.

I feel weird solidarities emerging and plastered over the city’s fabric.

I feel the structure of memory in the season of remembrance.

We came to this city as outsiders and we will leave, but we have sensed it